


by action rather than words

by correct_horse_battery_staple



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 19:57:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17731652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/correct_horse_battery_staple/pseuds/correct_horse_battery_staple
Summary: Hamilton had turned around in his chair, and he was looking at his lap, where he was anxiously twisting the quill around in his hands. Ink was starting to smear all over them, turning the pale skin black, so Laurens stood up and gently pried the tool from his friend’s fingers.Laurens felt Hamilton’s eyes following him as he placed the quill back in its holder and turned back around. He hesitated. “What is it? What is wrong?”Hamilton sighed. “May - may I ask you a question?”





	by action rather than words

Night was falling, and the light of the sun was disappearing from behind the rows of tents. Exhausted, Laurens picked his way across the camp. He had stayed after hours at headquarters, translating. He approached his and Hamilton’s tent, and saw a glow coming from between the door flaps. Laurens smiled to himself, knowing that his friend was likely up late writing. Hamilton had much writing to do during the day, between translating, asking Congress for supplies, and writing other letters the General had need of. Even so, he stayed up writing his own essays more often than not.

Laurens had been correct in his assumption; Hamilton was bent over his desk, a candle burning low beside him. He startled as Laurens walked in, however, and looked up, sweeping a stray strand of hair away from his face. The light from the candle turned his red curls into fire, and Laurens thought he looked beautiful, especially when Hamilton's face broke out into a tired but genuine smile.

“Laurens!” Hamilton exclaimed, putting his pen aside.

“Hello, my dear boy,” said Laurens, amused. He sat on his cot and started pulling his shoes off. When he looked up, he noticed that Hamilton's face was a bit pink, which was odd, because Laurens had called him that many times before. Laurens figured it was probably due to the excitement of whatever his friend was writing. He berated himself silently for thinking that it could be anything else. A minute later, when Laurens was rolling his stockings up, he heard the faint sound of a quill scratching.

When he was done changing, Laurens settled cross-legged on his cot and flipped the book he was reading to the page he had marked with a woven chain Martha had given him the day he left for America. He felt a pang when he thought of his wife, but it was one of guilt, not of longing. Not for the first time, he wondered about Frances. He’d gotten a letter from Martha a few months ago, saying that Frances was doing well, but he wanted to know her. To meet her. He was a fool, nothing but a wrong, sinful fool who couldn’t even get around to interacting with his own daughter.

As he was wont to do, Laurens pushed away the guilt and focused on something else, this time being the book in front of him. It was a novel about a rich man who falls in love with a poor woman, but his father pressures him into marrying the daughter of a business partner. Perhaps it wasn’t the best thing to take his mind off Martha, but there was nothing else.

A small while later, the quill scratching stopped. “Laurens?” Hamilton asked tentatively, as if he were afraid of something.

Laurens looked up, confused.

Hamilton had turned around in his chair, and he was looking at his lap, where he was anxiously twisting the quill around in his hands. Ink was starting to smear all over them, turning the pale skin black, so Laurens stood up and gently pried the tool from his friend’s fingers.

This was a vulnerability he rarely saw in the other man, who was usually so guarded. Sure, Hamilton would laugh with the other aides and flirt with the kitchen women and argue with the generals, and he did have a nervous habit of unconsciously playing with whatever was in his hands, but Laurens had never seen him look so scared before. Laurens was baffled; even right before battle Hamilton would have only a glimmer of worry in his eyes. That was, if there were anything but confidence, which wasn’t always. That night, however, was a peaceful one. The army’s intelligence had found no trace of the British anywhere near the camp, the weather was clear, no one was sick - what could it be?

Laurens felt Hamilton’s eyes following him as he placed the quill back in its holder and turned back around. He hesitated. “What is it? What is wrong?”

Hamilton sighed. “May - may I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

Laurens made to walk back to his cot, but Hamilton caught his wrist before he could, stopping him. He pulled Laurens’s hand into his lap and started playing with that instead. Hamilton took a deep breath. “Laurens,” he started, “let me first make it clear that you are my dearest friend, and I would not wish ill upon you for all the world. What I am about to ask you may seem abrupt, inappropriate, and uncalled for, but rest assured that I have spent much time thinking over whether I should, at all, inquire upon such a thing, and that I have come to the conclusion that I cannot, for at least my own peace of mind, live in confusion over this matter.’

Even though what Hamilton was saying was strange, worrying, and a bit disturbing, Laurens could not help but smile slightly at his friend’s tendency to preface everything he wrote or said with a long, flowery introduction.

“Do you…” Hamilton stopped, breathed in once, twice, then said it. “Do you harbor any feelings towards me… of the romantic nature?”

Laurens felt the blood disappear from his face. “What -”

Quickly backtracking, Hamilton rushed to rephrase himself. “Do you feel for me what a man might feel for his wife?”

Laurens felt his heart beating wildly in his chest. How did he - “I, I don’t, I - what do you mean, Hammy -” He pulled away and tried to run before Hamilton would know, before Washington would know, before his father would know. He wasn’t breathing. He was choking. He was drowning in the swamp of his own failures.

Hamilton grabbed ahold of his other arm like a lifeline. “Please,” he whispered. “Calm down. I thought I made myself clear; it would not change how much regard I hold for you. I would never do anything to hurt you.”

Laurens tried to steady himself. He looked away into the corner, inhaled, and exhaled. “I can’t -”

“‘Tis a yes or no question, my dear Laurens,” came the voice in front of him. Hamilton’s voice was smooth and passionate at any time of day, but it was only moments like these where Laurens could detect a trace of an accent he didn’t recognize, a subtle inflection hidden beneath years of hard work and resilience.

This could be it. This could be the end of their friendship, of Laurens’s career in the military, of his life. And yet, Hamilton had sounded so desperate, and Laurens had never been able to refuse him anything. “Yes,” he breathed.

It was so quiet he’d thought Hamilton wouldn’t have been able to hear it, but an audible gasp next to him proved that that was not the case. Laurens expected Hamilton to pull away and kindly reject him, or pull away and say nothing, or even to pull away and race to headquarters, informing the General. He did not expect Hamilton to grab his face, pull him down, and press their lips together.

Laurens made a strangled sound and tore himself away, a thousand thoughts running through his head. “Alex -” he choked.

But Hamilton was nothing if not stubborn. He stood and pulled Laurens in again, chuckling against his lips. “It would not do to make a ruckus, my dear.”

And with that, Laurens gave in. He kissed Hamilton fiercely, his heart swelling like a book thrown in a river, taken out, and let to dry. His skin felt like fire was overtaking it, spreading through his body and flooding his senses. “My Hamilton,” he said, falling backwards onto the bed.

He could feel Hamilton’s delicate, ink-stained fingers carding through his hair, teasing it out of its braid, but his focus was only on Hamilton’s adoring eyes, sparkling with the light of a million stars.

~o*O*o~

Later that evening, as they lay tangled in sheets, Hamilton snuggled into Laurens’s side. Laurens looked down at him fondly and traced the outline of his nose before cupping his cheek in one hand and pressing a light kiss to his forehead. Contentment settled in his chest, and he smiled. “I think you have convinced me, my dear boy. I love you.”

End.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction, so please comment and tell me what you think!


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